My New Clothes Clause

During my time in China, I purchased more than 2,000 DVDs. I purchased them in alleyways and on street corners, most of the time out of someone's backpack. This isn't something I often raise with friends of mine who work in the entertainment business.

Likewise, when in the company of my ardently anti-gun friends, I tend not to bring up weekends spent at rural VA/NY ranges where I like to load and unload my beloved Glock 19 to the point of pinky blisters.

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We all do the downplay dance to some degree. As Carolina Herrera pointed out in a 2008 Vanity Fair article in which she likened the use of strategic white lies to having "manners," part of being self-aware is recognizing when omitting and stretching the truth is a good thing. In short, a little self-censorship goes a long way.

Some situations are a little more complicated. Case in point: the tenuous relationship those in the fashion industry –especially those with fewer opportunities to borrow and fewer dollars to spend– have with mass-produced, designer "re-creations."

The arguments for and against what range from true, inspired-by interpretations to egregious knock-offs are well-worn, and there is no need for me to try to sway the fashion purists toward the pragmatists, or vice versa. To be honest, I find credence on both sides of the story, but having just joined the industry realizing firsthand how original design truly is the livelihood on which many of these young adults are dependent, I'm now more thoughtful, and yes, a bit remorseful about much of what hangs in my closet. The $.80 copy of Bloodsport sitting in my DVD player, not so much, but the dress that looks so much like a Lim I've on occasion forgotten it wasn't a Lim? That one eats at the conscience.

The fairest compromise I can come up with is a simple grandfather clause: anything bought before my arrival at ELLE, knock-off or not, may remain in rotation; any subsequent temptation, no matter how chic or inexpensive, stays on the rack.